


REDROOM

by CultOfAdoration



Category: Repugnant (Band)
Genre: Biting, Blood Kink, Chaotic Switch Mary, Choking, Hair Pulling, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Spit As Lube, Unsafe Sex, ch 1 and 2 are unrelated. i just didnt wanna have to post separate stories, references to necrophilia, sex on a coffin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 22:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17517353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CultOfAdoration/pseuds/CultOfAdoration
Summary: "It will take a bit of effort, a bit of sweat and perhaps...a bit of blood." --Nosferatu (1922)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've never created reader-insert content in my life, so forgive me if it reads awkwardly.

You’d happened upon him by chance in one of the less reputable basement bars in town, known only for it’s music scene and the bad company it seems to attract. Sometimes there's live music but it seems you missed it this time, a crowd already dispersing, speaking loudly amongst themselves, all in makeup and paint and studded leather. You keep your head down, all too aware that this isn’t your usual element, but allow your gaze to sweep over the remaining patrons of the bar, landing on the man across the room. Having arrived too late in the evening — or early in the morning — to catch tonight’s set, you assume him to be part of the band from the flyers. Cheap, flimsy little things, probably printed out en masse at the public library of all places, posted up outside and on any available surface throughout the city.

His arms are draped over the back of the threadbare, beer stained couch, a lit cigarette in one hand. The only thing you can make out of him is a shadowed, skeletal face and a shock of shaggy black hair. It’s difficult to make out much else in the dim lighting and thick curtain of smoke lingering in the air, only the rough outlines of his jaw, the high point of his cheek, some dull sweatsheen reflection on his skin. He catches your gaze from the corner of his eye for a fleeting moment and seems to write it off, opting instead to return to the conversation his friends are having.

You look away, tending to your drink, idly picking the grime of a hard nights work from beneath your fingernails. _Fucking dead end job._ When you look back up, gaze unintentionally landing back on the man, he cocks his head back, challenging. Kicks his legs apart, one up on the low table in front of the threadbare seats the rest of the men are occupying.

And you notice that his hand creeps down his thigh, coming to rest near his groin.

And he notices that you notices.

Standing without so much as a word to the others, he comes to lean on the bar a mere few feet away. He waves down the bartender, who seems to recognize him, and introduces himself to you as Mary, just Mary, and says absolutely nothing at your amused snort in disbelief. _Mary_. Not much else is said, merely a formality, a few murmurs of trite, stereotypical conversation and double entendres that were honestly to be expected in a place like this.

Your conversation is interrupted when the bartender, a large woman well into her fifties with a bleached buzz cut and faded Ministry shirt, sets a bottle between the two of you.

“Mary,” she nods curtly.

He smiles and thanks her, sliding his beer closer to him.

“I take this to mean your buddies are gonna stop bitching about being paid in drink tickets?” She asks, pointing to the increasingly rowdy group — and their ever-growing mountain of empties — he’d left behind.

You tune out their conversation in favor of trying to get a better handle on whoever this Mary guy is, even long after the bartender walks away and he eases back into your previous conversation. No matter which way he turns, how close up you get, his face is seemingly always in shadow. Your gaze lingers on his mouth for a moment, but it’s just long enough for him to notice and flash you a quick grin. You let your gaze wander down his body before flicking back up to meet his eyes.

He looks over toward the glowing red EXIT sign above the door to the left of the bar, then back over to you. You quirk an eyebrow at him and he downs his drink before making his way over and shoving his way through the heavy iron door.

You huff through your nose at his brazenness and quickly abandon your lukewarm drink at the bar, making your way down the black narrow hallways. You’d never been one for casual trysts but lately you found yourself itching for something, anything, to break up the mind numbing monotony of the world around you. That, and the guy you’re tailing is ready, willing and able, even underneath the facade of cold indifference. It’s almost endearing. Curious.

The guts of the bar are easy to get lost in, hallways branching into hallways, some leading to the alleyways outside for those who need to make discreet getaways into the city. Like a rabbits’ warren.

The hallways are only well lit in comparison to the bar. The long fluorescents buzzing and flickering overhead seem to do nothing to cut through the stifling darkness, only putting strain on your eyes. It’s just enough that you can get a better look at the man. Scrawny and a little on the short side but not so much as to be unappealing. Faded black shirt, torn jeans, combat boots. He could blend right into a crowd had it not been for the corpse paint.

The unnatural bluish white of the fluorescents makes way to a deep red the further in you go, the hallways now being lit by infrared bulbs. It’s like a darkroom, almost dreamlike.

The floors are absolutely filthy, spilled drink and other mysterious, less pleasant fluids staining the bare cement. Mary doesn’t even bother to try any of the doors leading to the empty rooms meant specifically for close encounters of this kind, instead turning to face you once he’s found a suitably dark corner and shoving you bodily against the wall. You’re not sure if a room with a strange bed would be much cleaner anyway.

You give him another once-over. Dark makeup, black and white and a deep, brownish red drip down his face to mar his jaw and neck. Smudged black and red rings his eyes, the whites of which offer a stark contrast, seeming to shine eerily in the pulsating red light.

“How you wanna do this?” He asks, leaning right up into your face, fist tangled in your shirt and his arm barring your chest. A chill runs up your spine and you can’t help but grin. So much for being a scrawny little punkass.

You grab the back of his neck and pull him in so you can whisper “ _fuck me_ ” into his ear. He growls, biting at your lips and licking his way inside, and this time you laugh, resting your other hand on his hip, toying idly with the studs on his belt. His hands are caked in the same inky darkness covering his face, leaving smudges and palm prints all over the front of your already dirty shirt and wherever else he can reach, really.

Taking the opportunity to bite down on the junction of his neck and shoulder when he pulls away, you lick a hot stripe up his neck, all the way from his collarbone to his jawline. Your stomach flips at the familiar acrid taste of blood and you realize that you’d been mistaken.

Horribly, horribly mistaken.

He’s absolutely covered in it, skin sticky and gritty, some of it seeming to be his own if the gash on the bridge of his nose was anything to go by, and some of it just spattered on his skin, his hair, his clothing.

Were those friends or accomplices?

It’s as if someone has reached into your chest cavity to squeeze a fist around your heart. The sudden pressure deep in your throat and chest makes you want to scream but when he grinds up against you, the rough concrete wall biting painfully into your shoulders, you realize with a sick chill that the scream welling up and dying in your throat is from not only fear, but arousal.

Roughly tugging your pants down around your thighs, he groans as he palms your cock, rapidly filling out along the crease of your thigh and hip. After struggling with his own belt for a second, he undoes his obnoxiously tight jeans and he ruts up against you. He grins when comes back to stroking you through your underwear, all sharp toothed and predatory, before grabbing you by the shoulder and turning you forcefully to face the wall.

He shoves his fingers into his mouth, making soft, excited little sounds around them. As he moans you can actually feel the heat of his breath against your skin and you involuntarily shudder. He laughs and pushes one finger inside of you. It doesn’t hurt at all but you grit your teeth anyway. After the initial shock of the intrusion wears off, you rock your hips back, biting back any noise when he curls his finger. His voice is low in your ear, hardly above a whisper but the amusement in his tone is hard to miss.

“You like that? You want more?”

You had expected the question to be some form of power play. A way to make you return whatever humiliating question you were asked, but it seems that he's more than happy to get you where you need to be. He shoves two more fingers inside. This time you do groan at the stretch, the sound coming out gravelly and frustrated.

Mary drawls out a low “ _Theeere_ we go,” when you start rocking your hips back against him in earnest. From this close you can smell the blood and sweat on him. Gritty and grimy. He rubs up against your shoulder before biting down and sucking a dark bruise into your skin, the oily sticky feeling of the smudged corpse paint and blood rubbing off on you.

The wall bites into your chest and palms when he holds you down by the space between your shoulders. Pistoning his fingers roughly, he kicks your feet further apart but your pants around your legs don’t accommodate much more movement.

He bites down on your shoulder again, a slight sickening pop echoes in your ears as one of his canines punctures the skin. He groans, almost a growl, and by the quick intake of breath as he laps up the blood beading to the surface, this is exactly what he wanted. He pulls his fingers out to grab you by the hips and you twitch, your body not sure how to adjust to the sudden emptiness. The smell of blood is everywhere, so pervasive you can almost taste it.

He spits into his palm and slicks himself up, his eyes slipping shut as a shuddering breath leaves him. You can feel him stroking himself behind you, moaning like he’s lost in the sensation and you vaguely wonder if he’s forgotten about you, leaving you hard and dripping and _wanting_.

“Mary get on with it, fuck,” you say, face heating up in shame at the sound of your begging, pushing your ass flush against him when he pulls his hand away from himself.

He sucks at the bleeding bite mark again and grinds against your ass, making you moan, your forehead thudding dully against the wall as you let your head drop. You can hear your heart about to beat out of your chest.

“Eager, huh? You want it? You want me to fuck You? How bad you want it?” He says, pressing his erection against you. The thought of being put in your place makes your heart flutter wildly beneath your rib cage, heat shooting through you and resting warm in your belly as he squeezes your hips. He takes himself in his hand again, pushing against your entrance. Threatening to penetrate but pulling back just enough to leave you even more frustrated than before.

You look back at him, mustering the meanest look you possibly can.

“I swear to god—“

Mary shoves his way inside of you, effectively cutting you off, just to see the look on your face and you bite your tongue to suppress a scream. You twitch involuntarily at the taste of copper flooding your mouth. Your cheek bangs against the wall from the force of it and he laughs, not even giving you time to adjust before he’s pulling out almost complete and pushing his way back in. It’s rough, almost too much so, and angled weird, but it’s perfect.

He tangles a fist in your hair to stop you from squirming too much, pushing you harder up against the wall and laps at the corner of your bloody mouth. Sometimes, it’s nicer to just lay back and have someone else do all the work.

The rough snap of his hips shoves you harder into the wall with every thrust, his breath hot and ragged on the shell of your ear making goosebumps break out all along your arms. A small moan leaves you with each hard thrust inside you, the spit not doing much of a good job at easing the slide, his bony hips pounding against your ass.

He lets out a soft moan, yanking on your hair and you watch him as best you can out of the corner of your eye. You take the opportunity to take yourself in hand once again in an attempt to quell the heat roiling in your belly and threatening to engulf your entire body when he seems to lose himself in the moment. Vision hazy with your rapidly approaching orgasm, you roll your hips back against him with newfound excitement, his breath hitching in a sharp gasp and you grin to yourself in satisfaction. He digs his nails into the flesh of your waist and pulls you back harder against him, fast and unwarned, before bringing a hand around your throat.

You cry out, your face hot. There isn’t enough oxygen in the space between your face and the wall along with Mary using his grip on your throat as leverage. It hurts so much, overstimulating and painful and arousing all at once. You bite your lips between wheezing breaths so as not to scream when your orgasm hits, cum splattering on the wall. You stroke yourself through it, shivering with the force of it along with the lack of air. 

With a deep growl and a few more quick, rolling jerks of his hips, Mary pulls out, stroking himself with a few quick flicks of his wrist and cums all over your lower back, hot and thick and entirely overwhelming. He heaves a few shuddering breaths, still peppering your shoulder and the nape of your neck with bites, one hand roaming over your damp skin as he pulls his jeans up with the other. His thumb smears through the rapidly cooling cum on your back and you wince. _Gross_.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he mumbles, sucking the mess from his thumb and giving you a pointed, mischievous look.

“Fuck it,” you sigh, still panting. Mary doesn’t respond, only pushing his hair out of his eyes, messing it up further.

You catch your breath for a few moments before pulling your pants back up. When you turn to fully face him, he’s already walking back down the hall to the bar, not giving you a second thought. You follow down the hall shortly after, stopping in the public bathroom on your way to the main bar, not wanting to make it even more obvious what the two of you were doing, like anyone would give a shit. Using a few crumpled paper towels from the dispenser, you clean yourself up, but the dingy bathroom leaves you feeling even dirtier than before. Looks like you’ll have to take care of it when you get home.

When you finally emerge from the back hallway, you silently approach the bartender to pay for your drink, keeping your head low to avoid her gaze as you pull out your wallet, but she stops you.

“Your new _friend_ paid for you already,” she says, gesturing vaguely over to where he’s settling back in with his band as if he never even left. He catches your eye for a split second and you nod. He turns back to the conversation quickly, rolling his eyes. So that’s how it is.

You duck out of the bar without another word and begin the freezing trek back home, back to the monotony of everyday life. You yank a flyer down from the telephone pole out front and fold it up to shove in your coat pocket, making a mental note to keep an eye out for any future gigs. 


	2. Chapter 2

You’d first properly met Mary when you were tagging along as a friend of a friend to a night out for drinks. Before that, the most you’d ever seen of the man was when you occasionally passed through the living room of your friend’s shitty apartment he shared with one of Mary’s bandmates. They were usually on the couch either arguing about where to book the next gig or passing a joint back and forth while watching B-rated horror films on pay-per-view. Sometimes both at the same time. 

He never paid you any mind aside from a nod and a casual wave so you did the same. You hadn’t even known his name was Mary until thirty minutes before arriving at the bar. 

The conversation was stilted at first, leaving you unsure if you’d be able to jump in in the middle of all of the shared anecdotes and inside jokes until Sid had made a particularly off-color sex joke, to which Mary replied “that’s fucking disgusting, man,” laughing. 

DD points accusingly at Mary and shouts something, the entirety of which you don’t exactly understand, but you do catch something about Mary not fucking everything that moved, but everything that didn’t. The table gave a collective groan of disgust when Mary shrugs and inclines his head as if in acceptance, but you couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Mary snorts through his nose at you, taking note of your appreciation of a good sick joke, and tosses back the shot handed to him. 

You got on pretty well with the guy after that initial reaction, actually making him laugh a couple times.You also get the feeling that it could be the shots of vodka you’d had earlier in the night easing you into it. 

“Twelve shots… More than enough to kill anything that moves,” your friend had slurred as he poured a final round “for the road” once the group had collectively had enough for the night. You laugh as your friend struggles to shrug his coat back on, eventually taking pity and helping him turn the sleeve right side out. 

After saying your goodbyes out on the street, you catch Mary’s eye. He doesn’t say goodbye, but he does pull you in when you go to shake his hand and offers a quiet “be seeing you,” leaving you with an odd feeling in your gut that you can’t quite put a name to. 

 

That is, until he  _ does  _ see you. 

 

You stopped by a record shop on your walk home from work a few months later, some shitty little hole in the wall, browsing for nothing in particular on the very bottom shelf when someone tries to catch your attention. 

“Hey!” 

The voice sounds familiar, almost lazy sounding and slightly hoarse, but you can’t remember where you heard it before. 

You glance around, seeing nobody but the tired employees and a few customers. 

The unseen person clears his throat and you finally look up to see Mary leaning over the top of shelf from the other aisle, resting his chin on his hand. 

“Oh shit, hey.” You say, standing to meet him at eye level. 

“Haven’t seen you around G’s place lately. How ya been?” He asks, grinning. 

You quickly catch up as you continue browsing, telling him a little about work, asking him about how the band is going, whether they have any gigs lined up. Apparently they’d been out and about on a mini tour, road tripping around the neighboring cities for the last few weeks and it shows. It looks like he hasn’t shaved or slept in a week, his hair as disheveled as ever with dark shadows forming under his eyes along with the remnants of his face paint. He’s probably slept in it, if he slept at all.

He hums approvingly at the LP you eventually pick out of the clearance rack, the idle chatter continuing even as you pay for your album and walk the door, Mary following close behind. 

You’re not quite sure where this is leading so you stand awkwardly on the streets for a few minutes. During a lull in the conversation, you awkwardly cut in by saying, “Well. I’ll let you go now,” to which Mary cocks his head. 

“You got plans?” 

It catches you off guard, having not even considered that he had  _ wanted  _ to hang around so you shake your head. He jerks his head, gesturing down the street, so you walk with him for a few blocks, the silence oddly comfortable. Neither of you have a destination in mind so you jaywalk and cut through alleyways at random until you come to the cemetery downtown. 

You pause at the gates, peering in past the familiar wrought iron fence and crumbling brick walls overtaken by creeping ivy, Mary seemingly not even noticing that you’re no longer walking beside him. He realizes that he’s talking to no one after a few feet and he turns to look at you. 

“You leaving?” 

The question shakes you from your thoughts and you hastily respond. 

“No! I was just checking out the, uh… I used to hang out in there when I was a kid.” 

He says nothing, but walks over to look in past the gate. “Really,” he says, not quite a question. 

“Yeah, it’s uh. You know. Teenagers,” you say noncommittally, feeling a little self conscious when he looks at you from the corner of his eye. He makes a curious sound and after a beat, starts hauling himself up and over the padlocked gate. 

“What are you doing?” You sputter as he makes his way over, dropping down on the other side. 

“Let’s check it out. Pass it through,” he says, gesturing to the plastic bag containing your album clutched tightly in your hand as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe for him, _ it is _ . 

He snatches it away through the iron bars and stars walking deeper into the graveyard, leaving you with no choice but to follow, lest he steal the album before you even got a chance to listen to it. 

It’s a difficult process making your way over, gingerly avoiding the decorative spearheads at the ends of the bars, but you make it over unscathed and jog a little to catch up with him.

“You really used to come here to hang out?” He asks as you slow to a walk. “That’s kinda creepy, man.” 

“You’re one to fucking talk” you reply, feigning offense when you catch the poorly hidden smirk on his face and he barks outs laugh, coming to rest on a decorative stone bench placed just off of the dirt path.

“Stupid fucking kids,” Mary trails off muttering to himself about devil music and ouija boards in an approximation of what every sensible (boring) adult ever told you growing up. You get to talking again about nothing in particular, sharing stories of getting kicked out of this same cemetery or sneaking in to R rated movies as Mary looks around at your surroundings. He turns to look behind himself and gasps. 

“Holy shit,” he says, standing up on the seat and stepping over the back of the bench, heading over to one of the several mausoleums located in the graveyard.

He circles around to the side, peering in through its small windows.

You barely know the guy but you’ve seen enough of him to know that he  _ always  _ seems to get so excited over this kind of shit, the implications of which you are absolutely not drunk enough to examine at this point in time. Maybe Sid wasn’t just fucking around. 

Following after him, you wince at the grating squeal of metal as he tries the door. It’s rusted tight but it still creaks open just enough to squeeze through. 

“ _ Mary _ !” You hiss, as he eyes one of the freestanding stone caskets that call this mausoleum home. He turns, the side of his face illuminated eerily by the pale moonlight streaming in. “What’s up?” 

“Come on man, we should go.” You say, getting increasingly jittery once you remember the security guards holed up in the reception center at the driveway on the other side of the cemetery. They should be making rounds in about an hour. 

“I’m not gonna do anything weird,” he says, teasingly, turning to face you fully and resting against the casket. “I mean, unless you’re up for it”.

You sputter incoherently, biting your lip as you avert your gaze, a nervous excitement building in your chest causing your hands to tremble. 

“I just, look, I don’t know how comfortable I’d be surrounded by a bunch of corpses—“ 

He raises an eyebrow.

“Well, it says on the plaque that this one died in ‘64, so it’s probably more like a skeleton by now.“ 

“You know what I mean!” You say exasperatedly.   _ What’s this guys fucking problem?  _

His smirk widens into a full on grin. 

“That’s  _ all  _ you're worried about? So, hypothetically, if we were back at your place...” he trails off.

Shit. You hadn’t meant to let the implications of your phrasing slip past you. 

He’s already on you when you mumble, “And security guards,” as an afterthought. 

He hurriedly licks and sucks at your collarbone, humming in satisfaction at the little red spot that’s already forming before sinking his teeth into it. You gasp, it’s a little too much too soon, but you don’t try to stop him, instead pushing him back so that he’s leaning slightly over the stone casket. 

“Y'know, I never made it on a coffin before,” Mary says, running both palms over the rough stone. 

“Ugh, can’t imagine it’s comfortable.” 

“Irrelevant,” he says, going for your neck once again and this time you can’t suppress the moan he pulls from you. “Could always do it on the floor.”

“Fuck, Mary, we can’t— we aren’t even supposed to  _ be  _ here,” you protest weakly, his teasing getting the best of you when your cock twitches in interest. In all honesty, you know you can just walk away and he wouldn’t hold anything against you. The least he could do is take you home instead of trying to get into your pants in some musty old crypt full of skeletons, but you’re really not sure you wanna see how this guy lives if this is how he acts in public. 

“It’s only trespassing if we get caught,” he murmurs against your skin, his hands sneaking up the front of your shirt, pushing it up to reveal your stomach and chest.

Can’t argue with that logic. At least you’re sheltered away from any prying eyes inside the mausoleum. So long as you stay quiet enough, there shouldn’t be any issue, right? He slips his thigh between your legs, pushing and pulling at your hips to get you to grind against him as he does the same.  You feel up the outline of his cock through his jeans, his head tipping back with a hissed  _ yes _ .

You pull back to paw at his shirt, Mary eventually getting the hint and pulling it up and over his head, tossing it aside. You drag your nails up the bare skin, clawing at his chest and he hisses appreciatively. Tugging at his belt before he can close the distance again, you mumble, “Get that stupid thing off”. 

“I’m trying.”

He obliges and you pointedly ignore the lame comeback as Mary kicks off his boots before moving on to shuffling his way out of his infuriatingly tight jeans.You shrug off your coat and t-shirt, discarding the clothing in a heap onto the dusty floor. 

Mary’s breath hitches as his nails scrape against the surface of the casket, barely catching himself when you push him back over the edge, hiking his legs up with both hands under his thighs.  

You object weakly when he tries to shove his fingers into your mouth, with the excuse of not knowing where he’s been or what he’s been doing. 

“I’ve been with  _ you _ , asshole,” he grumbles, opting instead to slick his fingers himself. You watch him roughly prep himself, two fingers, three, hardly giving himself time to adjust as your trembling fingers work over the zipper of your jeans, urgently needing relief from the tight denim. 

When he’s ready – or ready enough for both of your liking – you brush his hand out of the way, gently grabbing his hips. You slowly push your way inside and Mary inhales sharply.

"Oh, fuck, you feel amazing," you breathe, hips bucking upwards into him, your lips slightly parted. Mary smiles wickedly up at you. You should know by now that Mary  _ isn't  _ one for gentle. 

He hooks his legs around your waist to pull you in, until you're fully seated inside of him and you groan at the tight heat. “C’mon, do it like you fucking mean it,” he demands.

You nod as you move a little faster, sliding home a little harder as you dig your blunt nails into his skin but it still isn't enough. 

”Harder,” he hisses. “ _ Make it hurt _ ,” his voice breaks, letting out a sob as he speaks. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mary,” you shake your head, giving a much more powerful thrust the next time, making the other man’s mouth hang open in a silent scream.

You pull out as much as the position would allow and shove back in mercilessly. He relaxes back against the casket, pushing his sweat damp hair out of his eyes. " _ Fuck, yes, like that _ ,” he groans. There’s no way his back and shoulders aren’t being scraped to death by the harsh stone surface, but it spurs him on if anything. 

You dissolve into a litany of ragged moans and sighs, railing into him as hard as you can, when you become all too aware of footsteps outside and a sliver of light bouncing off the metal fence and in through the window.

“Oh, shit–” you whisper, hips stuttering to a halt and pausing halfway inside of Mary. You drop down on top of him and slam your palm down over his mouth, interrupting him the second he begins to ramble  _ why the fuck did you stop, I’m so close, what the fuck–  _

_ “Shut the fuck up,”  _ you hiss in his ear. “Security’s outside.” 

He whimpers quietly and jerks his hips up when you press your hand down harder over his mouth and you roll your eyes, even though you know he can feel you twitching in excitement at his reaction. 

The footsteps fade as the security guard makes their way down the path and you breathe a silent sigh of relief, unwilling to risk making noise just yet. 

You stare down at the man sprawled out beneath you. Hands clenched into fists above his head, breathing hard through his nose with his head tilted back and heavily lidded eyes slipping shut. You make note of his interesting reaction when you remove your hand. 

Now  _ there’s  _ something to explore next time. If there ever is a next time. 

Leaning back to check outside to make sure the guard is far enough away, you feel a laugh bubbling up in your throat. The only thing you can think to say is “Holy fuck,” as Mary sits up to attack your neck, hot and messy against your skin. He claws at your back in a bid to get you to move and you hiss, swearing at him under your breath.

He bites his lip when your hands return to his hips, pulling him back down onto your cock. You'd been so close before you stopped yourself, the mounting edge of your orgasm staved off for now but retaining all of the sensitivity. You can't even focus on keeping yourself silent anymore, all pent up frustration and desperate for release. Mary drags his nails down your bicep, holding you in a vice grip. 

Getting the hint, you close a hand around Mary’s cock, stroking him rough and quick, out of time with your thrusts but neither of you really care. Through gritted teeth, Mary starts moaning urgently, thighs tensing and shaking at your sides.  

“ _ Fffuck _ , fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he moans, chest heaving. He pulls you in to claw at your back and you lean heavily on your forearm above him. His breathing gets progressively more desperate until his back finally arches off the casket, muscles going tight like a guitar string about to snap. He bites your shoulder to stifle himself, grinding his teeth like he intends to draw blood and tear his way through. Maybe he is. The thought sends a sick thrill through you and you feel yourself nearing your peak. 

Mary doesn’t seem to be slowing down, even though his movements are sluggish and clumsy. He cards a hand through your hair, tangling his fingers in the sweaty strands at the crown of your head. Hooking his ankles behind your back, effectively stopping you from pulling out, he pants, “Cum inside me.” 

The suggestion is exactly what you needed to push you over the edge. Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, forcefully snapping your hips into him when he tosses his head back. You keep rolling your hips until you're completely spent and then a little bit more before finally pulling out, wincing with oversensitivity. 

Shivering once the sweat cools on your skin, you rush to get your clothes back on, brushing away dirt and dead leaves stuck in the fibers of your coat. 

“Don’t forget your album,” Mary murmurs from his new position on the casket, his eyes still closed, lying lengthwise on it as if it were a bed. 

You snatch up the bag from where it was discarded in the corner and tuck it under your arm. “You’re not getting dressed?” You question when you notice he hasn’t made any effort to do much more than get his jeans back on, not even caring enough to zip them. 

He cracks one eye open to look at you, and after a beat he replies, “I’m thinking about staying here for a while.” 

Your face contorts into disgust before you can stop yourself and he chuckles hoarsely. You laugh as well, a short huff, and tell him he’s absolutely fucking disgusting. 

“Mm, keep talking like that,” Mary moans exaggeratedly as he palms himself through his jeans, rolling his hips up to meet his hand. You swat his hand away and kick his boots over to the foot of the casket. 

“Come on, dumbfuck,” you mutter, tossing his shirt onto his chest.

Mary laughs and stretches as he sits up, trying to figure out which way his shirt is supposed to go in the dark. When you head towards the main gate, he follows close behind after tugging his boots back on. It’s a major pain in the ass trying to get back over the fence when you’re so worn out, but the both of you manage it just fine. 

 

No one has to know about meeting up with Mary a second or even third time, the graveyard quickly becoming the end destination of the night on each of your walks through the city. Never once does he invite you back home, but it suits you just fine and you extend the same courtesy. Not like you could get anything done in either of your current shared living spaces, anyway. 

Eventually it becomes like a game. Seeing what you can get away with and when and where. Over the course of a few months, you grow accustomed to the deathly stillness of the cemetery. You even commit the security guard’s patrol times to memory, unintentional as it may be from more close calls than you’d care to admit, and notice that they stop making their rounds somewhere around 2am. 

Some nights, you end up either sitting cross legged on on your knees on the stone flooring of that same mausoleum with Mary bouncing in your lap, getting a little too loud, a little too excited, the looming monolith that is the freestanding casket digging uncomfortably against your back. You know you won’t be leaving without a fair amount of bruises and scrapes, giving you something to remember him by.

He uses the corner edge of the casket for leverage at times like these, his fingernails scraping against stone, and you get the feeling that you could do whatever you wanted to him and he’d still get off just from the close proximity to death. You even test that theory out a few times, pinning him down on the casket by the throat or trapping him against the wall and shoving your cock down his throat to watch him gag on it.

On his calmer nights, he keeps you laid out under the cover of darkness, the dampness of the grass seeping in through your clothes and chilling your skin. A nice contrast to the burning flush of embarrassment as he plunges a few of his fingers deep inside of you, holding your wrists in one hand above your head, he ruts against your hipbone until he cums with his face buried in your neck. 

 

You don’t see him much otherwise, your friend having packed up and moved from G’s apartment to a nicer place uptown, and it’s not like you were friendly with the rest of the band to begin with. It’s not like you can exactly call yourselves  _ friends _ , or anything else for that matter, but each and every time you part ways at the intersection a few minutes from the cemetery, Mary never says goodbye, only pulling you in and offering a quiet “be seeing you”. 


End file.
